


i’d rather keep the bullet this time

by kyrilu



Category: Utopia (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Gun Kink, Implied/Referenced Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mild Guro References, Mild S&M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shoe Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29130789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: "Beg," Wilson says.Lee lives, but not without making a convincing argument, of a sort. (Or: the one where Wilson steps on Lee's dick.)
Relationships: Lee/Wilson Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	i’d rather keep the bullet this time

**Author's Note:**

> i really wanted to write a lee/wilson fic that would touch on canon-typical pandemic biological warefare and ecofascism themes, but this fic idea has haunted me for two weeks and i had to write it. i'm sorry.

Wilson’s got a gun out again, pointed at him like a compass needle north. 

“There’s no reason to kill me, and we both know you need--” And Lee stops. His lips part. He sees in Wilson’s eye what he saw when he ordered Geoff’s death. It’s not at all like his desperation in the bunker, but harder and sharper. “You’re gonna kill me. For real.” 

“Generally, that’s what happens when someone aims a gun at you,” Wilson says, his voice even. “It didn’t take the last time, but this time, I’ll make sure.” 

Ah. 

“What can I do?” Lee says, softly. “What could I do to convince you, Wilson?” He puts his hand up in the air, the spoon distorting Wilson’s reflection. If Lee were a man who believed in God, he’d laugh and laugh at the pettiness of whatever higher power’s arranged this situation. 

But in this bloodied life, there are no gods or deities. There is only Mr. Rabbit -- no, there is only Wilson, one-eyed, like some sort of blind self-proclaimed prophet of myth. 

* * *

And the demand slips out before Wilson can stop himself. “Beg.”

Perhaps it’s because Wilson remembers himself pleading and whimpering, at the mercy of these men of this terrifying fucking organization. Maybe it’s because he needs to see Lee at his lowest. 

“Give me a reason, I mean,” he says. “Make the case for your life.” 

Lee gives him a wry knowing curve of a smile, and he sinks downward. One knee up, the other down, his hand resting on his kneecap, spoon face digging into his yellow trousers. His paralyzed arm remains tucked against his abdomen. 

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs. “Me begging on my knees before you, Wilson?” 

_Yes, actually,_ Wilson thinks, and he’s struck by the forcefulness of the thought. There’s something about this that feels _right_ , his heartbeat quickening in his chest.

He steps closer. And closer. It’s best to get close range since his depth perception has been halved, even though he knows he can do it -- he did it to Roy, after all. The tip of the gun rests on Lee’s forehead and stays there. 

Wilson says, “I don’t hear you talking.” 

“Please,” Lee says, his eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at him. “I can kill anyone for you, y’know. Your old friends. Arby. The queen herself. I can give you their eyes to pop in your socket. Who else is gonna do that for you? Boring old minions with their guns? You know me, Wilson. I’m _fun._ ” 

“I don’t think that eye gouging is a rare desirable skill,” Wilson says, dryly. “You’ll have to do better than that.” 

Lee’s eyebrows furrow, annoyance flashing over his face. “You took my arm, skipper. You’ve got me wheezing like a fucking asthmatic. What more can you--” And then he lets out a rasp of a laugh. “Oh, is that it?” 

In warning, Wilson prods the gun against Lee’s temple. “What the fuck are you on about?” 

Lee smiles. He tilts his head up, raises himself up a fraction, and he opens his mouth. Wilson freezes as Lee takes the gun muzzle into his mouth. It’s _obscene,_ Lee’s lips pink and shiny as he sucks the tip, his jaw bobbing, his cheeks hollowing, before he pulls off with a wet pop. 

As if it were one of his cigarettes. As if he daily breathes out bullets like smoke. 

Wilson stares at him, speechless. 

“Alright,” Lee says, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I can do that for you.” 

“You want to exchange sex for your life,” Wilson says, once he finds his voice. “In what universe is that remotely reasonable? After everything you’ve done? I don’t want -- I don’t want you _near_ me.” 

“But it’s a possibility, innit? Wilson. Captain. _Sir_.” He says the last slyly, smiling that damned smile again, and Wilson feels a strange shudder thrill up his back. “It’ll be better, after everything I’ve done. So you can choke me with your prick, boss. You can give orders up high on your shiny new throne, and I can bend over at your beck and call.” 

What the actual fuck is wrong with Lee? 

Wilson had thought that it takes a particular kind of madness to get where he is at this point. It takes a kind of madness to commit murder. It takes a kind of madness to imprison your friends and threaten children. And then there’s The Network, the dream of plunging the world into plague and population control. 

But this is--

“Jesus Christ,” he says, and he’s disgusted, he _is_. “You’re pathetic, Lee.” 

He moves closer, the gun still trained forward. Then he cannot help it, this vicious vindictiveness kindled, and Lee _had_ offered. He pockets the gun, safety clicked on. He steps forward, and he presses on Lee’s waist with his right foot. 

Black shoe tip digging against yellow trousers. And Lee’s _hard_ , of course he’s hard; Wilson can feel it underfoot, stirring and stiff. Eyes widening, Lee lets out a pained gasp. The spoon in his grasp clatters to the ground. 

“This is really all you could think of giving me,” Wilson says, with a huff. “It’s sick.” 

His shoe grinds harder, applying further pressure. It’s a miracle that Lee doesn’t topple over from his kneeling position -- instead, he’s keeping balance and taking it, his eyes fluttering frenetically.

“I’m sick?” Lee repeats, raggedly. “I was right. You want me. After everything I’ve done.” 

“Don’t act so smug,” Wilson snaps. It’s not about wanting; it’s about _taking_ ; it’s about -- making him pant and writhe and hurt like this.

With effort, he eases up the motion. He has his shoe trace the shape of Lee’s cock, up, down, the length straining through the layers of fabric. 

“Let me,” Lee says, licking his lips. “I can take my cock out. You can touch it, Wilson. You can squeeze it so tight between your fingers and make me come all over your coat. Come on, Wilson, cap’n.” 

It’s not an unappealing mental image. But -- “You’re not the one in charge here,” Wilson says. 

Wilson crushes his foot, deeper. This time, Lee does lose his balance, toppling onto his back with a _thump_. He seems to steel himself for the fall, though, his legs splayed out and flexing. He’s now using his thighs to maneuver more easily, so he’s rubbing himself against Wilson’s shoe.

“I was,” Lee says, his voice so rough that Wilson has trouble making out the words, “about to offer you my own eye, Wil-- Wilson. I’d let you pry it out with the spoon and you could do anything with it-- but it really is more fun like this. Less messy.” 

Wilson grounds his heel in. Lee makes a labored choking noise, his cock spasming underneath Wilson’s boot, and soon, there’s a wet splatter staining the front of his trousers. 

Wilson looks down at Lee. Sprawled on the ground in front of him, cheeks flushed and mouth red. He must’ve bit down on his lip as he came. 

Wilson thinks: _I want to kiss the blood off his mouth._ And then he thinks: _Fuck._ Fuck. 


End file.
